Code Red
by Aldira
Summary: His life had sucked from the very start, but Harry didn't think it could get any worse until he woke up in a hospital. Slash.


Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, author of the Harry Potter series.

Warnings: slash (boyxboy), some violence later on but nothing too graphic

Note: Written for the Lottery Competition: 14 (Fire)/ 22 (Sweetness)/ 31 (Ice)/ 41 (MuggleHospital!AU)/ 47 Are you okay? You don't look okay); Disney Character Comp: Pumbaa; Hunger Games Trilogy Comp: Caesar Flickerman; "As Many As You Want" Comp: breathing fast, blue eye, visit, muggle

**Code Red**

Harry blearily opened his eyes, staring at the blank ceiling, the blinding white marred by stains of some sort. For a hospital, it wasn't very clean. He guessed the sterilization only applied to the equipment and not the actual building itself as he caught sight of the accumulating dust along the corners of the room. It wasn't very big but enough to fit two twin sized beds, one of which was currently hidden behind a curtain, out of plain sight, whose occupant was fast asleep, tucked inside the scruffy thin sheets.

When Harry first arrived, Colin Creevey openly stared at him as if he were an extinct species of dinosaur resurrected from death designed to play the banjo or something. In other words, the brat had treated him just like everyone else in the world, with pity. Looked at him with that same sad look in their eyes, whispered behind closed hands as he passed them, pointed at him with not even a fraction of the subtly they tried to use. And yet, whenever he so much as comes near them, they quickly draw back, as if he was a danger to them, as if he was a freak. So yes, Colin had not made a very good first impression, but Harry found the heart to forgive him after spending a sleepless night, listening to the disconcerting sound of the kid's wheezing breaths and endless, gasping coughs during a particularly rough attack. They were polite roommates, with Colin too nervous to initiate something more and Harry not bothering to at all.

He had been going through a depressing stage in his life after all. Or as McGonagall had dubbed it, "The Black Hole." But he couldn't be blamed. From his perspective, it was a reasonable enough reaction. A fairly accurate representation for the majority of earth's population, in fact. Just think, one moment he lived, not a happy life but a fairly predictable one, and the next moment, bam! He's collapsed in the middle of his trek back to Privet Drive, groceries flying everywhere as his face collided with cement. Well, it hadn't climaxed that suddenly, similar…incidents cropping up weeks before. Harry was a lot thinner now. While he had previously been a bit petite for his age and gender due to the Dursleys' lack of care and hospitality if it could even be called that, now he was downright gaunt, bones protruding out awkwardly, stretching the paper thin skin tightly. He had been suffering a fever as well, one that didn't seem to go away no matter how much cherry-flavored medicine he swallowed down. Fatigue clung to him like a second layer, wrapping around him securely and not letting go, only getting heavier as if someone was merely adding rocks slowly but surely to his backpack. Then he found himself in the hospital, hooked up to an IV cord with who knows what pumping into his veins. So, yes, being told you have a terminal illness does generally equate depression.

But that had been two weeks ago, and Harry had stopped being quite so pessimistic about his situation. It was just an ordinary sad day in the life of a now hospitalized, terminally ill Harry Potter, who refused to even look at the carefully placed, napkin-wrapped pills atop the plastic, movable countertop attached to the bed, much to McGonagall's dismay. Brown eyes glared warningly at him as fingers tapped furiously on the keyboard.

"Mr. Potter, it would be beneficial if you would simply take the medicine prescribed to you."

"No," Harry stabbed the tiny straw into the juice box, stubbornly sipping the drink. Nothing screamed manliness like drinking apple juice from a small, green carton.

The physician exhaled deeply out of her nose, hands pausing over the keyboard in frustration.

"It would do you good to stop acting like a petulant child."

Harry ignored her, scooping up a spoonful of ice cream and shoving it in his mouth. Mmm, vanilla goodness.

A sigh was heard throughout the room before McGonagall took her leave, finding out once more that nothing could break through Harry's stubbornness.

He had been on his daily walk around the fourth floor, because you couldn't expect Harry to stay cooped up for long. Some days were worse than the others. And it had been one of those days. Stopping, Harry leaned heavily against a pale, pasty wall, one that matched his skin tone quite accurately he noticed, gasping in air, something that just wouldn't register in his body. He couldn't get enough of it. His chest was rising and falling too quickly, even he knew that. Breathe, breathe. A hand clawed at his chest. Why couldn't he breathe? His legs were shaking as they struggled to keep him standing. His fingers and toes were numb. Were they supposed to be numb? It was cold, so cold. It was as if the blood in his veins were replaced by ice. Harry shivered as he curled slightly, wrapping his arms around himself.

"Are you okay? You don't look okay," a voice called out in alarm, startling Harry into opening his eyes. When had he closed them?

The first thing he saw was red. A very bright, passionate color, one that demanded attention. It was a warm color, like fire. But fire was bad, it was too hot. It would burn him, it would hurt him. Harry caressed his hands softly. He didn't want to get hurt.

"I'm fine," Harry replied after a pause, one too long to actually support his claim. "You don't mind if I sit do you?" Because honestly, he wasn't sure if he could remain standing much longer.

"No, no, come in," the redhead gestured to the chairs by the bed. "I would help you, but I think I'll fall over myself if I tried," he teased, tipping his head to his right leg, which Harry could now see was wrapped up tightly in a cast, graffitied with bright markers from exuberant family members.

Harry slowly and shakily made his way to the hard, plastic chair, proud that he managed not to stumble one bit on his trek, sighing quietly in relief once he sat down. He rubbed his hands along his thighs, hoping to covertly qualm the trembling in his legs. If the other male noticed, he chose not to say anything.

"I'm Ron by the way," he stuck out his hand, grinning at him. There were bandages wrapped around his head as well, a startling contrast the bright hair. He seemed a bit too happy, considering that he was confined to a bed.

Harry glanced at the offered hand, wondering if he should take it when his own rose without his permission or knowledge. "Harry."

His voice, quiet from lack of use in the last one, two weeks, gave way toward the end. Harry tried again, this time louder.

"So how'd you end up here?" Ron asked. "I was in a car accident, not my fault, of course, but my idiot brothers,' don't know what they were thinking. But the doctors said I should be fine in a few weeks or so."

He stared expectantly at Harry.

"Well, I'll probably die soon." Okay, that wasn't how he wanted to word it, but it was true.

"Oh," Ron's eyes bulged. He shifted nervously before speaking once more. "It's not contagious, is it?"

"Not unless you plan to have sex with me," Harry glanced away, smiling bitterly. An awkward silence descended upon the two.

"Well, it's good that I'm straight, right?" Ron joked, grinning slightly. Harry looked up in surprise before letting out a huff of laughter. He couldn't believe this guy. Harry shook his head mirthfully as he stood up.

"I think it's time I leave. My doctor's probably looking for me right now."

"All right," Ron nodded, red hair bouncing around, "do me a favor and visit me, okay? It's not like I can visit you often."

"Sure," Harry hid his smile, walking out the door with a wave. Life seemed a lot more sweet than before.


End file.
